


A very bad no good week

by vinyl_octopus



Series: Tumblr prompt fills [12]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Douglas Whump, Douglas making things better, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin Crieff Whump, Martin making things better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:06:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1599347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinyl_octopus/pseuds/vinyl_octopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For skywriter98 and an anon on Tumblr who both wanted Martin having a bad day of whump cured by Douglas supplying cuddles and Making Things Better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Martin's Very Bad No Good Week

“For the last time, Martin, NO! I have not miraculously developed any new funds since the last time you asked. I’m sorry, but I simply cannot afford to pay you. I told you before, if you don’t like it, you’re at liberty to go and find something else. Probably a good idea for all of us. We’re going to go under at some point anyway; another landing like the one you just put us through and it’ll be sooner than any of us expected. Now get out.”

Martin cringed his way back out to the main office area. Arthur was looking at him sympathetically, already on his way into the kitchenette to make Martin a cup of tea by way of comfort. Douglas was lounging on the office couch, apparently captivated by the newspaper he was reading and pointedly, as requested, not getting involved. Other than to have the last word. “I _did_ tell you, Martin.”

Martin clenched his fists. Yes, he had. But Martin had had to cancel three van jobs this week for MJN. Rent and utilities were due Friday and he hadn’t earned anything since last Monday. The stress was distracting him enough that yes, all right, he had landed Gerti with more of a ping-pong bounce than a feather-light touchdown. At least Carolyn hadn’t made good on her threats to make him pay for the repairs to the landing gear. Yet.

***

“Oh, sorry. You cancelled twice on me. I wasn’t sure you’d actually show up. I’m afraid I booked someone else to shift the equipment yesterday. Sorry, mate. I didn’t think to call.”

Martin smiled politely; nodded understandingly. His own fault, really, He should have rung to double check before making the three-hour drive. Stood to reason that a client who’d been messed about might call someone more reliable. He slunk back to the van and didn’t pound his head against the steering wheel.

The drive home was at least more eventful. What with the flat tyre and the inexplicable radio fault, which entertained him by intermittently cycling through every available station (and some unavailable ones), without him even touching the dial. Three hours out, four hours back. Nothing to show for it but the expense of a tank of fuel, a bruise across his forearm where he caught it on the van’s wheel arch, and a thick fog of depression pushing down on his shoulders.

He ignored the call from Douglas when he got home. He was in the wrong mood and wouldn’t be able to hide it if he went round.

***

“This box is damaged.” The woman peered at Martin over her glasses.

“It was like that when I collected it.” The boxes had been stacked haphazardly near a half-open window and it had been raining all night.

“Was it? There’s no mention of it on the paperwork. I’m not paying for this.” She pursed her scarlet lips.

“I…now hang on. I’ve got the paperwork here. Everything is accounted for.” She was right. He’d forgotten to note the damage when he picked everything up. Because it was minor. And he was distracted by his own desperation.

“Look at this.”

Martin sighed, peering at the box with the crushed corner and barely noticeable wet patch seeping up the side. The wind rattled the venetian blind on the door behind her. She backed further into the doorway, blocking Martin from moving closer.

“Damage. I’m not paying. And, if anything, you owe me recompense.” She stabbed at her copy of the invoice with a shiny red talon.

“That clause is for the _contents_. The boxes are stuffed with Styrofoam, there’s no way…” He bit his lip against his panic; he absolutely could _not_ afford for another job to go south.

“I’m not paying!” She shoved the box in question back into the office with a sweep of her stilettoed foot and took another step back, the door now resting on her shoulder.

His lungs tightened. “Madam, please. If you’d just check inside the—”

“You need to leave. I’m not paying for shoddy work. And I’ll make sure no one else makes the same mistake, hiring you. Get off these premises, or I’ll call the police.”

“You can’t—”

“Out!”

The door slammed shut in his face. Martin thudded a palm against the glass in frustrated agitation. “You can’t do this!”

Behind him, a security guard, who looked like he weightlifted trucks in his spare time, was wandering purposely into view. He levelled a faux casual look between Martin, standing by the office entry, and his van, parked outside the delivery dock.

Martin pointed his thumb at the office. “That’s £300 I’m owed.” He set his jaw, ignoring the tremor of worry slithering down his spine; £300 was a pittance to a company like this.

The guard jerked his chin at the car park exit as he wandered under the eaves. He was a good foot taller than Martin.

“Hop it.” He cracked his knuckles. “Unless you’d like to talk about this _outside_?”

They _were_ outside, but Martin refrained from correcting him… in favour of rattling off the contract conditions and his own legal rights. His voice was wincingly high-pitched, his self-righteous tone sounding pompous even to himself as the guard took two more threatening steps towards him, edging him back out into the rain. He knew, even as he spoke, that arguing was pointless. The guard wasn’t in charge of payments.

A fact he explained to Martin with a single, hard, courteous punch direct to his gut. He left Martin folded on the tarmac near his van, with another reminder to get off the property, “smartish”.

Humiliated, Martin got to his feet, ducked his head and clambered back into the van, wheezing for breath as he drove off; hands shaking as they gripped the steering wheel.

Next time he’d know: if a job sounded too good to be true, it probably was. Now he’d a two-hour drive back in rain and traffic. And no money. Again.

His phone rang as he pulled up to the lights one mile out from Fitton. Students moving house who no longer needed his services. Last job of the week cancelled.

He pulled over so he could indulge his temper on the roadside, ignoring the rubbernecking drivers passing by; letting out a pained roar of frustration, kicking the brand new rear tyre and thumping a fist into the side of the van. That was a five-day extension on his rent completely wasted. Five days of work and the only one that had paid was the £20 fill-in he’d done as a one-off favour for the local florist.

 

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind, Martin.” Melanie favoured him with a winningly dimpled smile as he dragged himself in the front door. She waved a full plate of jam-slathered toast at him. “We ran out of bread so I used the last of your loaf. That’s OK, isn’t it?”

Martin glanced into the lounge where a group of students were bent studiously over their text books. “Of course.” He managed a faint smile. That was the last of his food. But the students had been generous with the produce from their class plot at college. He couldn’t complain about them taking a few slices of stale bread in return.

“Oh, and there’s a message for you on your door. Landlord called again!” Her cheery voice was cut off as the door to the front room closed.

Martin sighed, rubbing a weary hand over his tender abdomen and clomping up the stairs to his attic. He peeled the scrawled post-it off his door as he went in. A reminder that this evening was his deadline and that failure to pay would mean eviction.

He ought to shower. Hot water would help. Instead, he threw himself on his back on his bed, forgetting to twist to avoid the broken spring that stuck up in the centre and jumping at the pinch.

A cold draught whistled through the skylight overhead. He half-heartedly pulled the edge of his duvet over his shoulder to block the breeze.

His pocket vibrated.

With another sigh, he answered. Couldn’t ignore his boyfriend forever. “Hullo.”

“Martin, I’ve been calling you since yesterday. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Douglas.” He couldn’t be bothered to sound convincing.

There was a pause. “You’re not.”

Martin grunted.

“Come over.”

“I don’t really…”

“Let me cook you dinner and spoil you for an evening. You sound done in.”

Martin hummed disinterestedly.

“Martin? I’d _like_ to see you.”

“All right, Douglas.” He knew Douglas wouldn’t give up. “Give me half an hour or so. I need to…warm up. And organise a few things. And talk myself into a better mood.”

“You know I’d be happy for you to come as you are…but whatever you need. I’ll put some food on. And I’ll light the fire.”

Luxury. Martin summoned up the wherewithal to sound vaguely enthusiastic.

An hour later he showed up on Douglas’s doorstep. Slightly bedraggled, a bit better after painkillers had taken the edge off his aching stomach.

Douglas took one look at him and folded him into an embrace before he even got through the door. He turned them on the spot, neatly stepping Martin into the warmth of the hallway while he closed the door, all without relinquishing his hold. Martin sank into Douglas’s chest, trying not to feel pathetic as he squeezed, encouraging Douglas to wrap his strong arms tighter and breathing in the fresh, comforting scents of fabric softener, deodorant and spicy cologne.

Douglas nuzzled at Martin’s hair. “Rough week?” His voice was a warm rumble.

“A bit.”

Douglas kissed the top of his head. “Well. I’ve a roast on. The fire’s lit. And there’s wine if you want it. You look like you need it.”

“Hmmm.”

Douglas slipped a finger under Martin’s chin. “You’re cold.” He captured Martin’s lips in a kiss. “Come through to the fire.”

Martin refused to let go.

“Or we could stay here.” Douglas stopped trying to chivvy Martin along. Wrapped him tight once more and rested his cheek on the top of his head, waiting until Martin was ready to move.

 

Much later, after a fantastically indulgent roast eaten in Douglas’s welcoming kitchen, and a quiet hour or so curled up with a glass of wine (or sparkling grape juice in Douglas’s case) in front of the fire, they made it to bed.

Still dressed in T-shirts and underwear, they didn’t talk much, exchanging soft kisses and caresses without serious intent. The wine had taken woozily over where the painkillers had left off. Nevertheless, Martin flinched as Douglas ran a hand over his stomach.

Douglas pulled back immediately, taking his hand, his kisses, and his warmth with him.

“All right. What’s wrong? You’ve been out of sorts for days, love. I didn’t want to intrude but if you’re hurt…”

“I’m not. Not really.” Martin sighed, pulling Douglas’s arms back around himself and rolling over until he was settled cosily, comfortably and securely between Douglas’s legs, head propped against his chest. Douglas’s groin was a lumpy press against his bruised abdomen, but he wouldn’t have moved for the world.

He pressed an ear to Douglas’s chest, allowing the steady heartbeat to lull him soporifically as he went through the details of his week. Douglas pulled the heavy covers up like a cocoon and ran gentle fingers through Martin’s curls, not speaking except to murmur encouragement, occasionally pulling Martin’s hand up to rub it against his stubbly cheek. The bruising from the van was blessed with a run of kisses from wrist to elbow; the tender knuckles from punching the same were treated with similar care.

When Martin got to the events of today, with the boxer-cum-security guard, the petting halted, just for a second, before Douglas cupped a worried hand at the base of Martin’s skull, soothing with firm strokes over his nape. “Are you all right?” His voice was dark, a little husky, a little broken.

Exactly why Martin had been avoiding him; avoiding _telling_ him.

Martin shook his head. “It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have argued. I knew the job was a bit…off.”

Douglas’s hand tightened.

“Anyway,” said Martin, with a bitter chuckle. “It doesn’t matter now. I’ve been evicted.”

“What?”

Martin buried his face in Douglas’s sternum. “All the jobs this week. They were meant to pay my rent. I got an extension. But after all the cancellations and everything else, I didn’t even come close to making ends meet. I’m being kicked out. As of…” he lifted his head just long enough to read the bedside clock “…half an hour ago.”

“Martin!” Douglas pulled insistently at his shoulders. Martin dug in until Douglas gave up. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He was running his hands agitatedly up and down Martin’s arms.

“I just did.”

“Eventually. After I dragged it out of you. What were you going to do if I hadn’t called?”

“Dunno. I’d have thought of something.”

“Would you? Where’s all your stuff?” He squeezed Martin’s biceps.

“In the van. I’ll figure it out, don’t worry.”

“I am worried. Where were you planning to go? The park?”

“Don’t be stupid. I can’t live in my van.”

Now Douglas’s hands were properly pulling at him. His voice was sharp. “I _know_ that. Don’t be thick. I’ve been asking you for months. Move in with me.”

“No.”

“Why? You’re here half the time anyway; it’d be more often if I had my way. I _like_ having you here. I like waking up with you.” He kissed the only bit of Martin he could reach – the top of his head, since Martin had ducked to hide his face in Douglas’s throat. “And I like going to sleep with you.”

“You know I can’t.”

“I know nothing of the sort. I know you have a stupendous amount of pride. I know you’ve been refusing to move in because you’re worried about money. I don’t want our relationship to be restricted or defined by something so base. Especially not when I have the space here for you. I can support us until you get your feet under you. Move in.” He pressed a hand firmly under Martin’s chin again.

Martin twisted out of his grip, resting against Douglas’s shoulder and talking to his clavicle. “It’s so easy for you to be generous.” Douglas was rubbing his back now. Still pressing thoughtless kisses into Martin’s curls. “It’s…not so easy to always be the one _taking_.”

“I know. I’m not trying to be patronising. I know how hard you work. Sweetheart, we can figure something out. Over time. But you can’t come over here and tell me about working this hard, about being unable to make ends meet, about getting _hurt_ for God’s sake, and expect me to happily send you out to do what? Sleep in your van? Live in a hostel?” He wound both arms around Martin as if to stop him hopping out of bed and heading out to such a place. Squeezed so tight Martin finally squeaked in pain. He loosened his arms, only slightly apologetically. “I love you, you colossal idiot. And we’re partners, aren’t we? _Stay_ with me; move in with me. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me. You know I’m selfish. AND I’m always right.”

Martin finally managed a laugh. “Well, that’s true.”

“Please.” Douglas managed to get a kiss on his forehead this time. “Please.” Got Martin’s nose as he tipped his head up in surprise. Douglas _never_ said please. “Please,” he whispered again, succeeding in kissing Martin on the lips, parted as they were in surprise.

Three times the magic word was Martin’s limit. He agreed. Daring to trust that Douglas could willingly handle the weight of his own defeats, he finally kissed back, eagerly and passionately, his inner clouds dispersing in the blinding light of Douglas’s self-satisfied smile.


	2. Douglas's Very Bad No Good Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For 221Believe-In-Sherlock who wanted Douglas having a "Very Bad No Good Week", & Martin trying to make him feel better with something sweet & Martin-y.

“Yes, love, I _know_ it will be Father’s Day that weekend, but she really wants to go.”

“We already agreed that you could take her on a four-week holiday to the States. You’ll barely have been back. With the trips I’ve already got booked, I won’t have seen her for two months. Now you want to cancel this as well?”

“I’m sorry, Douglas, but it’s up to Emily. It’s her best friend’s birthday and they’re having a sleepover. It doesn’t seem fair to make her miss out just because…”

“Just because…?”

“…It doesn’t matter. But she’s not a possession. You can’t make her do something she doesn’t want.”

“I know that. It’s just…I miss her.”

“I know you do, love. But…”

“What?”

“Well…she’s nearly a teenager. You should probably get used to this. Pretty soon, I imagine she’s going to want to spend her weekends off with her friends. Not…”

“Not hanging around with her boring old dad.” Douglas rubbed a hand over his face. “I know. Never mind. Perhaps we can make it up next weekend. Before you go?” He picked up a pen and doodled mindlessly on the back of an envelope he’d left on the kitchen bench, the spreading ink lines helping to keep him calm.

“…”

“Karen?”

“No…it’s not. I’m sure it will be fine.”

“What is it?”

“It’s just…Jason promised to take her to the local air show, and…”

“Did he.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Didn’t you.”

“…I’ll tell her she can’t go.”

Visions of Emily’s disappointed face. And a weekend of resentment aimed at him. He drew a line straight through the ink patterns and threw the pen across the room. But his voice was calm. “No. Don’t. It’s fine. I’ll… I’ll just chat to her on the phone on Wednesday. I’ve got a layover in Prague. And…I guess I’ll see her, and you, when you all get back.” He’d avoided meeting up with Jason for the past two years since his ex-wife remarried. No need to break that run.

“If you’re sure,” said Karen in a tone that clearly pre-empted the end of the conversation. “Thanks, Doug. I know Emily and Jason will appreciate it.”

As if he cared a damn what her beloved _Jason_ wanted. He murmured a half-hearted farewell and clenched the phone in his fist as the dial tone buzzed in his ear.

That was that, then. He hit the hang-up button and put the receiver back in the cradle to charge. Then wasted an hour staring around his empty house.

***

“You will submit to this medical test, Douglas, because it is a legal requirement. Because unless you’re both fit enough to fly, I won’t have a charter jet company to run. Martin’s already done his. Passed with flying colours. You’ve put this off three times. Don’t test me: if I have to walk you into the doctor’s office like a recalcitrant three-year-old, I will.”

 

What felt like a year’s worth of prodding and poking and lights and sounds and impersonally intimate fiddling about and so on, revealed the obvious: reasonably fit for a man of his age, given his _history_ and his sedentary job.

Some concern about his blood pressure. And suggestions of some changes to his diet and exercise regime. A bottle of pills. And some extra tests in a couple of months just to make sure.

He drove back to the airfield under a thick, dark cloud of mood.

It wasn’t the first time his health report had been less than glowing. It _was_ the first time any, if not black then at least _grey_ marks on his chart were put down to age rather than anything else. And it was the first time anyone had uttered the phrase “retirement” as if it were anything other than a distant fantasy prospect.

In his heart of hearts he knew that’s why he’d been putting it off, for all he claimed it was a waste of time. He felt like a racehorse who hadn’t _actually_ been put out to pasture, but who wasn’t expected to win any more trophies. The suggestion to “take it a bit more easily” had the death knell ring of inevitability and had made him feel like he should collect a walking frame on his way out.

With a heavy sigh, he parked the car and wandered over to the Portakabin. Their passenger had already arrived. Casually dressed, the young woman was juggling a number of bags and boxes, clearly all the photography equipment she’d need at whatever the shoot was they were racing her out for in the middle of nowhere.

He squared his shoulders, ready to unload the full force of his Richardson charm; a bit of flirting with a young lovely never failed to soothe his ego, and a pretty smile was better than any youth-giving elixir. But even as he watched, Martin stumbled down the stairs with _his_ pretty smile, clearly managing his own charm offensive if the girl’s bell-like laugh and flash of dimples were anything to go by.

If there was one thing his fledgling relationship with the captain had managed it was boosting Martin’s confidence. Ordinarily it made Douglas proud, in a way he didn’t want to investigate too closely (surely it wasn’t right to feel fatherly pride in one’s lover?). Martin’s flirtations were still endearingly flustered, but the weight of Douglas’s open fondness seemed to be enough to stop him caring quite so much about making a good impression, and his steady diet of feet and shoe leather had diminished in the wake of gentle teasing and warm affection.

Which was, in and of itself, rather sweet. So long as Martin’s self-conscious glances and faint blushes were aimed at _him_ rather than the pretty passenger or stewardess (or steward) being charmed. Douglas watched as Martin scrambled to gather the remainder of the woman’s luggage, still apparently stammering. He knew his resentment (all right, jealousy) was unreasonable since Martin was only doing what he himself had planned to do and it was likely just as innocently meant.

_Likely_.

Probably. Completely innocent.

Realistically, it was only a matter of time before Martin worked out that, as seduction techniques went, blustering and awkward could be just as effective as smooth and knowing. And then what need would he have for a broken-down old Sky God?

As the tinkling laugh chimed again, and the woman produced a flattering flush over Martin’s face by leaning in and squeezing his arm, Douglas turned on his heel to avoid the youngsters, aiming instead for Gerti and hiding his sulk in a walk-around.

By the time he’d made it to his seat in the plane – without bothering to inform anyone else he’d arrived; they could work it out from the car parked a few hundred metres away and if Martin did the walk-around again then serve him right – he’d worked himself into high dudgeon. A glimpse of his own reflection, reminding him he was due to touch up his greys, and that his face was droopier and jowlier in real life than his imagination allowed, had not improved his mood.

He could almost hear Martin spring back off the wall of tension as he bounced his way into the flight deck in higher spirits than anyone had any right to be.

“Hullo Douglas!” The tone of surprise, while infused with warmth, was nevertheless wary.

Douglas managed a grunt in response.

“Not going to greet our passenger today? She’s lovely!”

“I saw. She seemed to have all the exuberant greeting she needed, what with you fawning all over her and, presumably, Arthur currently scampering around in his usual manner of overexcited puppy.” Douglas flicked a couple of switches with unnecessary force and then had to spend another minute unsticking one of them.

Beside him, Martin had shrunk two inches and was no longer radiating his sunny glow. He began quietly going through pre-flight checks. Not another word was spoken between them until they were airborne and the cabin address, performed rather mutedly by Martin, was complete.

“Carolyn said you had your check-up today.”

“That’s right.” Douglas ignored the worried look frowned his way.

“Why didn’t you tell… How did it go?”

“Fine.”

“Oh.”

Ten minutes’ silence. Broken only by Arthur arriving with coffee. A brief stay – he departed as soon as he registered the mood of the flight deck.

“I’ve got to make a few…’lifestyle changes’,” admitted Douglas eventually, imbuing the words with as much distaste as he could.

“Oh. Like what?”

“Diet. Exercise. Possibly medication. You know the kind of thing…” Douglas turned to look at Martin. The cheap, ill-fitting uniform swam on him, but Douglas knew for a fact that underneath it his lover was all lithe sinew and wiry muscle. “Hmmm. No. You probably wouldn’t. You’re still young and fit.” He hoped the bitter note in his voice went unheard.

“Medication? What for? Are you all right?” Aah. Bitterness unnoticed due to alarm.

“Of course, Martin. I’m perfectly fine.” He thumped his chest for emphasis and managed a half smirk. “Just a bit of a tune-up, that’s all. Set the old blood pressure to rights.”

“Right.” That was Martin’s careful voice. The one that meant he was worried, and he wanted to dig, but he wasn’t sure whether it would lead to a fight. “Well…I…at least you’re seeing Emily at the weekend?”

“Mm.” He wasn’t quite ready to poke that wound just yet.

Thankfully, Martin took his response to mean he didn’t feel like talking, so they flew the rest of the way in silence that, while not relaxed, wasn’t quite tense, either.

***

He’d only gone grocery shopping because he was bored. No Emily this weekend, and Martin had cried off subsequent plans when an unexpected van job came in. He trudged back along the high street, plastic bags in-hand. Well, at least he was getting in that exercise the doctor had insisted on. Though he’d rather underestimated the time and effort involved. He’d bought too much to carry comfortably, and the trip each way was closer to two miles than one; the second all uphill.

The grey clouds that hadn’t started gathering until he’d actually got into town, obligingly darkened on his way home, the heavens opening just after he’d passed the last bus stop.

“Out the way, granddad!” The jangling sound of a bike wheel caught his ear just in time to leap out of the way as an anoracked youth streaked past, one arm flung behind him to flash the V-sign as he skipped the bike through the footpath puddles then back down over the kerb and onto the road.

Douglas tightened his grasp on the bags; tossed his head to flip his rain-wet fringe out of his eyes.

_Granddad_.

He turned the corner to his street and was surprised to see Martin’s van parked outside his house. He splashed a little faster up the path, a faint knot of worry tangling in his gut. Martin _never_ dropped by unannounced. And he was meant to be several hours away, doing a moving job. Something had clearly gone wrong.

Or not.

As he unlocked the front door and stood dripping on the doormat, a delicious wave of baking filled his nostrils.

“Ah! Honey, you’re home!” Martin appeared beaming in the kitchen doorway, fetchingly flour-dusted and clad in a frilly apron.

Douglas blinked at him. Martin’s smile shrank. “Is it… you said I could use your key. I wanted to surprise you. Is this not…?”

Douglas shook his head, finally putting the sodden bags down by his feet so he could close the door and remove his overcoat. “Of course it’s fine! I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.”

Martin’s startled blink at this heartfelt declaration was interrupted by an ominous clang from the kitchen. Martin dived out of view and there was a muffled sound of scuffling.

Picking up the shopping bags, Douglas wandered closer to where he could here Martin making soothing noises.

Martin looked up from where he’d been brushing a tea towel over Emily’s head. She was standing at the sink but looked up at him, impish grin a violent burst of colour in her ghost-white face.

“Bit of an icing sugar incident,” explained Martin, dabbing at her face again. “Don’t worry. We’ll clean it up.” The counter nearest the pantry looked like the beginning stages of a winter diorama; white powder cascading over every surface.

Douglas felt the crack and strain of his cheek muscles as an enormous grin burst across his own face. Emily gave up on scrubbing the sugar from her arms and sprang across the room to embrace her father, somewhat stickily.

“Did we surprise you, Dad?”

He dropped the bags and kissed the top of her sugary head. “You did indeed, poppet. Whose idea was it?”

Martin looked a bit shifty. “Combined effort, I’m afraid. You know I answered your phone for you when we were in Prague? Emily and I had a bit of a chat before I gave the phone to you.”

“Mum said I wouldn’t see you for two months if we didn’t get together this weekend,” explained Emily, squeezing his middle a little tighter.

“You both seemed a bit down about that,” said Martin with magnificent understatement. “So I, uh, drove up to collect her this morning.”

“But then you weren’t home when we got here,” continued Emily. “So Martin said I could make a cake for dessert.” She waved a hand at the oven, from which the chocolaty aroma was drifting.

Martin pointed at the kitchen bench, cluttered with half-chopped vegetables. “I was just making a start on dinner when you got home.”

“And I was getting the icing ready… but the packet sort of went _whoof_.” She mimed the packet exploding in her face.

“Looks more like you upended it over your head,” chuckled Douglas, ruffling her hair and sending sugar clouds into the air. “Do you two want a hand clearing up…or preparing?”

“Absolutely not,” said Martin firmly, stepping forward to retrieve the bags Douglas had dropped, and setting them on the kitchen table. “ _We’re_ spoiling _you_.” His face twisted a bit. “Um… just give me a moment…” he ran out of the kitchen and thundered up the stairs.

“He was running you a bath,” said Emily. “I think he forgot.”

Martin reappeared. Douglas raised an eyebrow. “All fine,” said Martin, slightly damp. “Right, Em, you finish cleaning yourself up. I’ll track down some more icing sugar and Douglas?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“You get yourself into the bath. I’ll be there in a minute to, uh…” he flashed a look at Emily.

“To make sure he’s got his rubber duckie?” Her cheeky grin emerged from behind the wet tea towel she was using to mop her face.

Martin’s face went deeply and immediately crimson, though Douglas was sure his daughter’s joke was at least a little more innocent than Martin apparently assumed. The warm glow of amusement buoyed him all the way to the bathroom.

 

As it happened, Martin had drawn the line at anything more than a few chaste kisses and a quick, if luxurious, scrub of his back. And chest. He seemed convinced that Emily would barge in at any moment, as if she wasn’t old enough to appreciate a closed bathroom – or bedroom – door. But he’d left Douglas to soak in a very deep bath and in rather a better mood than he had been all week, and when he finally emerged from his soapy cocoon, it was to the heart-warming sight of his partner and his daughter teasing each other over the washing up. The first rosemary-infused scent of what turned out to be a succulent roast was just beginning to overpower the rich, fresh-baked aroma of the slightly lopsided and garishly decorated cake that was sitting on the bench top.

 

After Emily soundly beat them in a challenging game of Scrabble – something about which Martin was revoltingly gleeful despite having trailed both Richardsons by several hundred points himself – she took herself off to bed with a saucier than necessary wink, promising to stay tucked up and locked in her room until morning. With headphones on.

Martin’s blush made an endearing return, but this time, Douglas was able to kiss it right off his face and redirect it to far more interesting regions… and shortly afterward convince both Martin and himself that perhaps he was still quite capable of putting in a trophy-winning performance after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently one of the asks borrowed this prompt from the meme: http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6625.html?thread=13314273#cmt13314273, so I guess this is kind of a fill for that OP?
> 
> I got visual inspiration from hollyashes' gorgeous artwork, too: http://hollyashes.tumblr.com/post/84980849458/would-you-do-a-martin-douglas-one-with-martin-lying-on
> 
> (For some reason AO3 keeps stripping the html every time I code a link.)


End file.
